


'til the end of the line, comrade

by Cryosoldier



Category: 1984 - George Orwell, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1984, Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28546038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryosoldier/pseuds/Cryosoldier
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	'til the end of the line, comrade

Steve Rogers knew he was damned this morning moments before he felt his breath hitching and his chest tightening Though his asthma was predictable—and fairly mild—there was no escaping the frequency of attacks during the daily exercises. For Steve, even a simple set of jumping-jacks became extremely laborious. His lungs became compressed beneath his ribs while his throat dried and tightened after each gulp. Steve’s arms flailed more and more as he continued to push through his jumping-jacks. An accompanying pang in his right side caused him to wince. His mouth fell open as he sharply gasped for air. His movements came to a halt when his knees hit the floor, hunched over with his hand clenched against his heart. 

As he suffered in the center of his scant and dusty apartment, the telescreen flickered at him. “No slacking, comrade,” A voice ordered from the device ordered upon noticing Steve’s movements slowing.

“Yes, sir,” Steve croaked. Still hunched over, he saluted to the screen. Steve pushed himself off of the floor, and reverted to the previous exercise, his lungs practically begging for a break. Steve always complied—it was in his nature. He also knew that if he slacked, his activity would be even more heavily monitored. Despite the strenuous exercise nearly killing him each time, he always performed them as ordered. Although he liked to tell himself he only did it because they were watching, but perhaps he believed he could improve. If he had just pushed himself more and more each time, maybe just maybe, the hard work would improve his immune system and bulk up, in spite of his lanky frame. For a while he had believed that his lungs were becoming healthier and the phlegm that clogged them had dissipated, but as the weeks dragged on and the asthma persisted, his hopes were crushed, and the daily exercises were all in vain. 

By now, the attack had worsened. “My inhaler,” Steve wheezed. He collapsed from his push-ups and crawled towards his coffee table.  
As he reached for it a voice called out, “Rogers, no stopping!” 

Steve nodded and weakly returned to a plank. His scrawny arms wobbled, attempting to hold him up. His neck tensed, face becoming flushed and eyebrows knitting together. While the tension against his chest heightened, the thoughts came flooding in. 

I hate you. He curled his lips into a snarl. He now knew that there would be two causes of his death: an asthma attack or think crime. He now knew he was for sure being plugged in on. However, some wave of careless realization flushed over him. If he died today, so be it. 

“3…2…1,” The voice counted down the seconds. With that, it announced, “Thank you, comrades. You may return to your day.”

Finally, Steve was able to get a hold of his inhaler. His shallow breathing slowly returned to normal. He glanced down at the sweaty, white t-shirt wrinkled against his body. He huffed as he peeled it off. Then, he trotted over to his dresser and picked out a crisp button-up and a pair of worn suspenders. 

After dressing himself, Steve stepped out of his apartment complex and continued to walk along the cobbled paths of the city to get to work. After the thoughtcrime he had committed in his apartment, Steve tried so hard to convince himself the city was beautiful. He observed as others passed him in drab attire with tired, lifeless eyes, sunken into their faces. Even others could not even fake a smile while they scurried to their own jobs. 

When Steve reached the Ministry of Truth, he took a deep breath before opening the door. He nodded at the co-workers that blankly waved at him. Steve trotted up the stairs and turned a corner to head towards his cramped office which consisted of a stiff, wooden chair and a pile of scattered papers on a dusty wooden desk. 

He stepped in and sat at his desk. He sifted through his papers, examining his work from the day prior. Steve’s duties included creating propaganda art, a job he would have never of dreamed of upon realizing his artistic gifts. Steve hated this job. Over the years, he had become so disgusted in himself for using his beautiful talents and turning them into be a tool that fueled corruption and lies

Through the hours, Steve’s fingers began to cramp as they had wrapped around a pencil the entire time, working on a detailed piece in preparation for Hate Week. When the clock struck twelve, Steve meagerly got up and stepped out of his office and wandered to the lobby. A sense of strangeness struck him. Usually, at lunch time, the lobby would be bustling with some of his co-workers hunched over tables, stuffing morsels into their mouths, or even the usuals parading around, brownnosing their higher- ups. But this time, he scanned his co-workers who were all stopped dead in their tracks, looking in the same direction. Steve scratched his head in confusion. That was, until he noticed an intimidatingly long line of uniformed thought police, standing stiffly against the perimeter of the room. In their arms were rather large guns, and their fingers teasing the triggers. Steve scanned their blank expressions plastered on their faces, with their eyes darting around the room.  
His heart began to race, another attack coming onto him—this time it was anxiety. They had to be there for him. He was just waiting for one of them to catch eye contact with him. He was done for. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead, while he waited for one of them to jump him. Oddly enough though, the air remained still, and the officers remained in place. 

“Friends,” a voice spoke out. Seemingly out of nowhere, Steve’s boss, Alexander Pierce, stepped out of nowhere. “We have a new addition to our unit for the duration of Hate Week.” He motioned over to the line of officers. “They’re here to keep you all in check,” He chuckled. His eyes narrowed and gaze shifted to Steve. “Stay focused.” 

Steve gulped. Again, he looked over to the police to see if anyone else had been watching him. No one. While his eyes skimmed the line-up, he unexpectedly stopped in the dead center when a flicker of green eyes greeted him. They were of an officer, who was rather handsome, with short brown hair pushed back and the dark uniform he was wearing hugging his biceps. Steve felt his jaw drop, slightly as he admired the man. He noticed this, and hastily shook himself out of it. The corner of the officer’s mouth curved into a discrete smile. 

Steve’s thoughts raced. This man knew something that Steve didn’t know—he had to of. Was this all a ploy to take him down? Did they really think that many police were needed for his demise? Something was up, Steve knew it, and clearly that officer did as well.


End file.
